


Banked Track

by marginaliana



Category: The Grand Tour (TV) RPF
Genre: M/M, classic cars v modern Honda Civic, cw: Richard's accidents, episode related: Blasts from the Past
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 06:03:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19388011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marginaliana/pseuds/marginaliana
Summary: The word hung about Richard's head in a cloud these days, a heavy miasma just like the one that used to surround him back when four fags a day wasn't unusual.Coward.





	Banked Track

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PR Zed (przed)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/przed/gifts).



> Many, many thanks to Wyvernchick for reading this over and reminding me that I'm wrong about the British meaning of 'pavement.'

The word hung about Richard's head in a cloud these days, a heavy miasma just like the one that used to surround him back when four fags a day wasn't unusual.

_Coward._

He kept trying to wave it away, trying to turn his head into the wind of passing days and let the word dissipate. He wanted to drive fast enough that he could leave it behind entirely. But it wouldn't go, just clung to him like a second skin. Meetings and cars and so many film shoots in so many countries, and now he was in France and driving a beautiful beast of a Jag, and the word still wouldn't leave him.

There were so many things that he'd left behind these past few months. His plans to drink a little less and to paint more. His vow to stop grieving the loss of running. Emotions he didn't know how to handle. Things he wanted but didn't dare to ask for. 

James.

He'd have called himself brave to admit it, but it was just too obvious to ignore. The way his stomach dipped when James smiled at him, the way his skin went shivery when James clapped him on the back. He knew how James smelled now. 

It had come on slowly – enough that Richard had watched it happen and yet been powerless to resist. Every time he considered starting a stupid row, or having a scandalous tryst with someone completely inappropriate, or doing just about _anything_ that would drive a real rift between them, he found himself utterly unable to do it.

He was too afraid to do even that.

His head was a fucking bog, that was the problem. That hill climb – he'd broken his leg, not his skull (this time), but it still felt like his brain had sort of… sloshed. Turned itself over so that he was a mirror version of himself like in that Star Trek episode, only this time the mirror man would be the one _without_ the goatee.

Richard wanted to cling to that sliver of humor now, but the day was wearing him down too much. Last night he'd stood in front of the Jag for ten minutes, pretending he wouldn't be able to sleep, and then gone inside and failed to sleep anyway. The hotel bed was too luxurious, the pleasant French nighttime noises too pleasant. The temperature of the room was just right, which was irritating. Richard had wanted something to snarl at and hadn't got it because the only thing wrong with the room was that James wasn't in it. And then in the morning in the breakfast room of the hotel, James was there right beside him, sleep-ruffled and warm and smiling like nothing had changed, and Richard had had to force himself _not_ to snarl.

Now it was raining and he had no roof. His bollocks were overheating from the engine warmth and his fingers were freezing. He could only brake when he was accelerating, which was a stupid idea and also a nightmare to handle, especially at this slow speed. He could see nothing in the fog, which was terrifying. 

A year ago he wouldn't have even blinked; nine years ago he'd been driving along a thing called the _Death Road_ and grinning like a maniac. Where had that Richard gone?

Lost, probably. In the fog of his useless brain just like everything else.

Even Jeremy stumbling across a car full of doggers couldn't quite lift his spirits. It was momentarily hilarious – they'd have to do some fast work in the edit to hide the crew's laughter – but when the doggers had driven sheepishly away Richard still had to deal with the fact that his spark plugs were shot and his head was wet and he had no jacket. 

And he wanted James. Not in the carnal sense, given that it was physically impossibly for Richard to get it up at the moment, but because James was comforting. Solid, when Richard's whole world seemed to be wavering. The smell of him was like a blanket, and _Christ_ he could really use a blanket right about now. Figuratively and literally.

But it made no sense to have James here. His job was to prove them wrong and he was doing it, and just because it would help Richard to lean on him didn't mean James was going to turn around and come back and abandon his part of the film. Richard didn't even want him to, not like that; it wouldn't be right. But he wanted the world to stretch to accommodate the desire anyway, wanted James to just magically appear with that smile from this morning quirked on his face. Except that this time it would be a smile for Richard alone. This time it would mean something.

_Oh, Christ, you pathetic twat._

"Hammond." It was Jeremy.

"Shut up, Jez," Richard said. "Just… fuck off, please." He could hear the exhaustion in his own voice, but he couldn't manage to stifle it. 

Jeremy's steps came closer, and a moment later something heavy was draped across Richard's shoulders. He reached up one hand to touch it and discovered that it was a wool blanket. This time the sigh was halfway to pleased. He needed a blanket and here one was. Not quite the one he'd wanted, but it would have to do. "Cheers."

"Look, I'm assuming you don't want to talk about it, whatever it is," Jeremy said quietly.

"Correct," Richard said.

"But if you ever do want to—"

"You will be the absolute last person that I go to."

"Too fucking right," Jeremy said, and that _was_ enough to wring a genuine smile from Richard. "But you can call and leave me a voicemail and I solemnly promise to delete it instead of listening."

"I don't believe you," Richard said, but it was a lie. They'd been friends for umpteen years and he'd never known Jeremy to break a promise, not even a small one. 

"Yes, you do," Jeremy said. "Now stop whining and let Sam work his magic with those spark plugs, all right?"

Richard sighed. "Fine."

Jeremy's arm moved against his as he made some sort of gesture, and a moment later Sam appeared on the other side of the Jag, setting a toolbox down with a reassuring clunk. "Three minutes," he said, squatting down out of sight. "I brought spares."

"You get a raise," said Richard. "Jez, go distract James, will you?"

"Let me get the cameras on and then you can tell me to go distract James. Think of something creative, yeah?"

Jeremy moved away into the fog and came back with Phil just as Sam was kicking the toolbox. "All right, more than three minutes," Sam said. 

"It's fine," Richard said. "I've thought of something creative for Jeremy to do, and he won't even need a hammer."

"Oh thank fuck," said Phil. "Katie," he called into the fog. "Get the tripod."

Richard folded up the blanket and stashed it in the passenger seat of the Jag as he laid out his idea. Phil and Jeremy both gave it the thumbs up, and it was less than ten minutes before they had a good take.

"Now piss off," Richard said. Jeremy stayed long enough to see Richard bundled into the crew car with the blanket, but then went.

It was another half hour before Sam got the Jag running. Normally Richard would have been out there stubbornly helping, but he was too much in love with the blanket and the Land Rover's heater to worry about his pride. 

Then Phil said, "Ready to go again?" at which point Richard's pride picked him up by the scruff of his neck and chucked him back out into the fog.

He did a few normal-looking bits to the camera but mostly drove half burrito-ed in the blanket and topped with a crew member's bobble hat. And when they crossed the Pyrenees and came out into the sunshine, it was almost all right.

Until they reached the track.

* * *

"Okay congratulations, James," Jeremy said. "This is the steepest banked circuit I've ever, ever seen, and I'm not even at the steep bit of it yet."

"Seventy-eight degrees at the top, apparently."

_Seventy-eight._ The number didn't mean anything in particular; there was no hard limit that Richard had set himself. But he had to admit that it was daunting. He attempted to walk upwards a little, but with his knee aching the best he could manage was a bow-legged shuffle.

"What's your plan, May?" said Jeremy. 

"Well, what I thought we'd do is put a speed trap at the end of this curve, where it goes level again, and whoever achieves the highest speed through this bit of banking is the winner." James' voice was amused; he flicked a glance to the side, giving Richard a smile, but Richard had to look away, holding back a shudder. They'd often joked about driving on the roof of a tunnel, one hundred and eighty degrees, all the way up. This wasn't even close to that, and yet.

_Coward._

He told the voice to shut up, but when he spoke his voice, once again, didn't quite hide his apprehension. "Right. Erm, can we have a bit of practice first?"

They went into logistics. James was still looking at him and so Richard set his mouth chattering, trash talking about speed as usual even when the cameras were off, still being shuttled around to set up all the angles. It was almost soothing to watch the crew work so smoothly together, a combination of work routine and personal familiarity.

That could have been him, perhaps, if he'd taken a different course back in art school. Cinematography had never been one of his favorites but it paid well enough. He could have had the same travel as he did now, behind the camera rather than in front of it. They all worked hard and they all took time to have a drink at the end of the day, just like the three public idiots. Maybe that life would have been easier. At least he wouldn't have been so likely to bash his head in.

_Coward._

Telling it to shut up didn't seem to be working anymore. Instead he pushed himself firmly into the Jag and ground it into first gear. He could see James startle at the noise, but Richard wouldn't meet his eyes. He bit down onto the inside of his cheek to make himself wait for Phil's signal. Phil raised an eyebrow, but nodded.

Then Richard was out on the track, away from it all, shooting past the cameras without even looking. Letting his feet and his hands do what they knew best. He went around, then went around again, pushing a little harder each time. 

It ought to have been freeing. Speed. The shimmering metal underneath his feet, the thrum of wheels on tarmac. Finding the delicate ridge just at the edge of danger but not tipping over – he'd been chasing that for weeks now, maybe months, never quite finding it. This, here, should have been it.

But it wasn't. 

Richard wanted it desperately – or, failing that, for it to be, at least, something else worthwhile. A moment to prove something, to stay, to put his foot down and damn the consequences. Not a moment to pull away, to justify it as smart, sensible.

Nothing had held him back before, not having rocks thrown at him, not almost freezing his balls off in the Arctic, not even the years-ago accident that had been, unarguably, far worse than this most recent one. But today… He could blame it on the drive, if he chose. Blame it on the terrible gearbox, on his still-healing knee, on the exhaustion that had come from crawling through freezing fog in a car with no roof, on having no jacket. Blame it on the whine of Jeremy's Aston, audible all the way on the other side of the oval, blame it on the tremendous fucking potholes.

But it wasn't any of that. It was merely that he’d lost his nerve, and he knew it. He was scared – just a little, but enough. It was the knowing that made the choice for him. He'd get up there at full speed and be nervous, be second-guessing his instincts, be just a moment too late to react the way he should. The fear would fuck him up far more than anything else. Funny how that worked.

"I don't want to go up there," he said to the camera, tilting his head up towards the far edge of the track. " _Why_ would I go up there?"

He pushed on for a while, pushed and pushed, but the conclusion was inevitable. He slowed down. "Yeah, well my practice laps have taught me one thing." Richard hesitated, then made himself say the rest. "I don't wanna do it."

It was on camera now. They could probably make him take it back, if Jeremy and Phil and Andy all ganged up on him, but he'd always know that he'd said it nonetheless.

_Fuck._

"I've just gone right off huge motoring accidents, at the moment," he added. "Right off them." Most likely it would lighten the mood of that moment of film enough to show it. It'd have to – he didn't think he could make himself say it again.

He couldn't make himself say _anything_ once he'd pulled off the oval and into their prep area. Jeremy came in behind him and then James after that, and they'd started talking logistics with Phil by the time Richard could choke the words out.

"Hammond can go first," said Phil, "and—"

“Think I’ll pass,” Richard said. Everyone else turned to look at him, and he tried not to quiver under the unexpected scrutiny. “I’ve got no roof, and it could easily lead to having no head. And, you know. I like my head. I’m rather attached to it, actually.”

It was a feeble joke, utterly lame, but it was the best he could come up with. “So, you two enjoy yourselves, yeah? And I’ll just go and have a slash while you’re setting up.” He turned away and walked towards the crumbling farm building where they'd set up the toilet, trying to keep his steps measured. This was running away in its most literal sense, but who cared about that now? He'd already done the bit that counted.

There were footsteps behind him; Richard didn’t look until he was out of sight of the crew and had reached the shade of a portico, but he wasn’t surprised to find it was James who’d followed him. They hadn't been alone together in weeks, always on a shoot or in meetings, Richard slipping out whenever he felt like he might glance over to see James' small, pleased smile and do something to give himself away. 

He was fairly sure that James had noticed the avoidance, and he was even more sure of it now that James wasn't saying anything, just looking at him evenly until the irritation broke through Richard's clenched teeth.

"Well?" Richard said. 

"Rich—"

"Better get on with the piss-taking or Jez is going to booby-trap your Honda." James wasn't actually going to be an arse. Probably. Still, it hardly mattered. Richard was too angry with himself to be reasonable.

“I'm glad you're not doing it, all right?" said James, and the anger in his voice was sharp enough to cut through Richard's morass of thoughts.

"What?"

James crossed his arms over his chest. "You heard me. And it's been years since you've had enough brain damage to use that as an excuse for not listening."

"I'm not— what?" Richard's head was spinning. "For fuck's sake, James, you barely make sense to begin with, let alone when you're telling me off."

"Oh, cheers," James said. "Look, I was fully prepared to have a shouting match to keep you off that track. I'm genuinely glad you're not doing it. "

"Great," Richard said flatly. "Why are we arguing then?"

"Because you're not doing it for all the wrong reasons!"

That made even less sense than anything that had come before. "I'm not doing it because I might get killed!" Richard said. "That is the best reason! It literally cannot be bettered!"

James sighed. He put a hand over his face. "Hammond. Just… stop trying to make yourself feel terrible."

"I don't need to try," Richard said, with far too much honesty.

"Then try to stop!" James dropped his hand as he spoke. His face had gone all red, the way it always did when he couldn't quite find the right words for something. Richard took a deep breath and waited him out. "There's nothing wrong with making the safe choice," James said at last.

“But _you're_ doing the race," Richard said.

“Yes, well,” said James, deflating a little. “I've got a roof. And I'm not—"

"What?"

"The housewives' favorite."

" _Get off_ ," Richard said. "Like that matters."

"Rich, you can't deny that you're… precious. That's all."

“And you think you’re not?”

“Not like that," said James, and there was a tinge of something in his voice, the barest sliver of a hint that 'precious' meant something more to him than it did to the audience. 

It was all Richard needed; it was the thing he hadn't even known he was waiting for. He stepped forward and fisted his hands in James' ridiculous and wonderful flowery shirt. “Yes, like that.”

And this— this was easy. The nightmare thoughts melted away: the fear of shame more than shame itself, the fear that he had become some alien version of himself, the fear that James would see. The fear that, worst of all, James would pretend he didn't notice. That he would want the old Richard back.

But it was this instead, James' warm mouth and the hint of crisps on his breath. The soft huff of surprise he gave as their lips met, melding into a faint groan. The way he leaned down, meeting Richard on his own level rather than making him stretch up. So characteristic of James, that tiny moment of unthinking consideration. Richard felt his heart thump with the joy of both the familiarity and the kindness. James didn't want him taller, or braver, or straight as the rod up the BBC's arse. He wanted Richard just the way he was.

Richard slid his hands up, draping his arms around James' neck. James grabbed at his hips and pulled him in closer. "Rich," he murmured, the words almost ticklish against Richard's lips. "Richard, are you sure?"

"I've wanted this for months," Richard said, pulling away just far enough to make sure the words were clear. "God, I've wanted this – wanted you – and never thought I could have it."

"But this kind of wanting?" James said. He pressed their bodies together, leaving no doubt about what he meant. "The kind where I put my hand on your cock? Because that's what I want."

"You can't imagine the places I put my hand while thinking of you," Richard said. James startled into a laugh, and it was so utterly lovely that Richard had to kiss him again.

This time they were both a little more confident, or James' words had set the stage, or both, and the kiss turned heated, James' hands sliding up Richard's back, a smooth and welcoming weight. He kissed the corner of Richard's mouth, almost nuzzling; Richard moaned, kissing the just-parted bow of James' lips. James shivered and Richard kissed him harder, teasing the line of his mouth with his tongue.

They were halfway up against the wall when Richard was reminded of just exactly why they'd come in here in the first place. He forced himself to pull away.

"Rich—"

"I would really love to do a thousand dirty things to you right now," Richard said. "But I've suddenly remembered that Jeremy exists, fairly close by, and that's enough to ruin the moment."

James winced, then laughed. "Fair enough," he said. "Later? At the hotel?"

" _Yes_." 

"Good," said James. "Now. How d'you want to handle this, then?"

"Er." Richard hadn't really thought that far ahead. Mainly because of the feeling of James' solid body against his own.

"We could change it up," James offered. "Have it be Jez and I forcing you not to do it, saying that we, I dunno. Don't want to be delayed when you inevitably roll it over the top and accidentally barbecue all the chickens?"

Richard considered it, but shook his head. "No, let it be what it is. I don't wanna do it and I'm not gonna do it. I'll be honest." _I'll be brave._

"Have you decided to serve as an object lesson to the boys and girls at last?" James' tone was teasing, but his eyes were warm and approving, and his hands were still spread flat across Richard's back.

"You two treat me like an object already."

"Only because you're so small and fluffy and cu—"

"If you say the c-word, I will gut you."

"I wasn't going to," James said unconvincingly. 

"Then what were you going to say?"

"Er. Sexy?"

"Have another go."

"Gorgeous?"

"Hmm," said Richard. He ran his hands through James' hair, enjoying the softness against his palms. "Nope, I still don't believe it. Try again."

James' hands slid downwards to cup Richard's arse. "Exquisite. Delicious. Tempting."

"That last one I'll believe," said Richard. "You're easily tempted."

"Not like this," James said, his voice a low rumble. "Rich—"

Richard kissed him again, and then once more, and it was only a massive strength of will that allowed him to pull away. "Back to it," he said. "Or Andy will have words. And neither of us will like those words."

"I suppose," said James. 

"So get out there and give Jez a thrashing, yeah?" said Richard. "But—" He poked James firmly in the shoulder. "—don't you dare get hurt."

The crew knew enough to be convincingly uninterested when the two of them emerged. Jeremy, of course, hadn't bothered, and was sitting on a concrete wall with his feet propped up along the length of it.

"Well?" he said. 

James caught his eye and they spent half a second conversing entirely by tilt of head. The two of them often communicated this way, which drove Richard a bit mental; if he wanted to get a point across to Jeremy, it generally involved shouting. Still, he was grateful for it now. 

"Right," Jeremy said. "Hammond's out. Slow, I shall leave you in my dust, as usual."

"Mmm," said James. He looked smug; Richard didn't know if that was from a sincere belief that he might beat Jeremy or from their kisses, but he found he didn't much care which.

* * *

James triumphed – no surprise, given his modern Honda, but worthy of celebration nonetheless – and they packed up and headed for the hotel, all reconvening in the courtyard bar just as the sun went down.

The air was still warm and the breeze was like an embrace. Richard ordered a gin and tonic but only sipped it, too relaxed from the day's whirl of emotion to need much in the way of alcohol. The restaurant provided them with an endless supply of delicious dippy things and things-in-pastry and things-on-sticks.

And James was there, right beside him, not hovering worriedly but just _being_ where they could be together. Not like a warm blanket this time but something soft and light and comfortable. James' shoulder occasionally rubbed against his own and it was the faintest reminder that this wasn't everything he'd get. That in a while they'd sneak upstairs and engage in unspecified naughty delights. Perhaps twice or even three times, if they weren't too tired.

Richard's dubious knowledge of what to do with men came entirely from fevered imaginings and porn, and he knew he'd probably have to own up to it – a little more bravery. But with James there, he knew he could.

Jeremy made his way towards them via a bizarre path between the tables, pausing now and again to put a hand on someone's shoulder or laugh at a joke. His eyes were gleaming with his usual pleasure at a job done well, but they became slightly more serious as he came close enough to talk.

"All right, Hammond?" he said.

All three of them knew he didn't only mean it as a greeting.

"Yeah," Richard said. "You?"

"Ehh, all right for losing a race. I figure it's time James got something good." He waggled his eyebrows. Richard flushed, but forced himself to keep looking at Jeremy rather than turning to see whatever expression was on James' face.

"He'll have more time to _get it_ once you go away," Richard said. James made a faint sound of amusement beside him, but it was Jeremy's embarrassed flush that really got Richard grinning. "Unless you want to hang around so that you can—"

"I'm going, I'm going!" Jeremy said. "I'm going straight back to the bar, in fact. You can drown yourself in whiskey if you have enough, right?"

He turned away without waiting for an answer, which meant that Richard could allow himself to dig his elbow into James' stomach and turn to meet his laughing eyes. 

"Think we may have scarred him," James said slyly. "Pity."

"Oops," Richard said, still smiling. "Still, does that mean we can go?"

James laughed. "Yes, Hammond," he said. "Christ, yes, let's go."

He didn't take Richard's hand as they slipped back into the hotel lobby and make for the lifts, but neither did he step away and create the artificial distance of 'just mates, nothing to see here.' Richard didn't know which of those he wanted, the one that was reckless or the one that was safe. But maybe it didn't matter. 

Danger or no, occasional sensible decisions or no, this was where he belonged. With his team (still creating a ridiculous hubbub out in the courtyard) and his friends and, yes, the bit where he stood in front of a camera and made a fool of himself, and, _yes_ , the bit where he drove like a maniac.

With James by his side, this was always where he wanted to be.


End file.
